


The Green Dreamer

by Kamil_the_Awesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prophecy, F/M, Robert's Rebellion, Tourney at Harrenhal, green dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamil_the_Awesome/pseuds/Kamil_the_Awesome
Summary: Green dreams - visions of the future - have plagued Lyanna Stark her entire life. When her dreams draw her into the realm of prophecy, she finds herself set upon a course with fate.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Darker Oneshots 2020





	The Green Dreamer

281 AC

.

**.**

.

Shoed hooves beat hard against the soft, mossy ground of the Harrenhal godswood. The godswood appeared sunken in the long, shattered shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. The knight’s breaths came as fast as the horse under the seat—harsh, quick, desperate. When King Aerys had called for their head, the knight knew they would have to flee and had already shuttled their horse into a gallop before the first enemy knight could mount their own steed. A lord’s honor had been upheld, insulted and assaulted the past day by mere squires, before the King spoke. It mattered not to the one under the armor whether they could continue on in the lists. There were greater concerns, for it was said the Mad King burned his enemies, laughing as they screamed and suffered and perished before the Iron Throne. Worse were the rumors, the whispers, of how he would purge families with fire for a single slight. Only one child of House Darklyn had survived the Defiance of Duskendale, though most said it was due to the intervention of Ser Barristan Selmy, the knight of the Kingsguard who spirited his liege from captivity.

“My prince!” called out a finely accented voice, as if the sands of Dorne suddenly stretched to the Trident. _Martell or Dayne,_ the knight determined. They knew enough of Southron politics to know the voice had to belong to a Kingsguard. _The prince…that means Rhaegar is upon my trail._ “There are tracks here.”

 _Old Gods protect me,_ the knight prayed before guiding their horse left through a thick bramble they knew would lead down a difficult slope and through a grove to a gnarled tree, perfect for hiding the poorly fitted armor they wore. A few pieces had already been tossed away to set false trails, though it seemed the crown prince and his knight were not tricked.

“Lead on, Ser Arthur.”

_Shite!_

The knight had heard rumors about Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. It was said he was the greatest swordsman since the legendary Dragonknight. Word had spread through the camps around Harrenhal for the tourney saying how he had slain an entire band of bandits almost singlehandedly. Thinking of those stories sparked an edge of fear in the knight’s heart, but they were hesitant to put too much stock in mere whispers.

It was dreams that were the truth, not whispers.

The knight led their mount down the slope. Panting heavily, they dismounted and rushed for a gnarled oak. Their mismatched, ill-gotten gear clacked with every hurried step. In their rush, they passed the heart tree, whose face was not the happy one painted onto their shield, but a terrible face of hatred and malice.

The knight stumbled as they began to strip off their armor. Piece by piece, metal was shed until standing in the grove was a girl nearly a woman instead of a knight. Dressed as a boy, she set the laughing weirwood shield under the terrible face.

“A most curious sight, if I do say so, Prince Rhaegar,” announced a voice she didn’t wish to hear. “It seems we have found an errant lady, not an errant knight.”

She turned, denial ready to spring from her tongue and past her lips. Yet the words faltered and her mouth went dry. The ones who had found her trail, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Ser Arthur, had caught her. Both had light colored hair and clear, mesmerizing eyes, as though they were brothers. They were certainly handsome enough to be called brothers, though her thoughts quickly turned to her own deeds.

_Forgive me, father, but the honor of House Reed had to be restored._

“I would agree, Arthur.” Rhaegar’s violet eyes fell upon her. “Tell me, fair maiden. Have you seen a knight in poor fitting armor pass through? We found his horse several paces back and are curious if you know where he went.” He paused, glancing past her, “Though it appears you have beaten us to his shield.”

_They…they don’t suspect me? Or do they suspect I will admit myself, caught at the end of their trail?_

“He has already left, my prince. I saw no face, though I was hoping to take his shield for myself. A bannerman of my father’s was assaulted by the squires of those three knights. When I found his shield, abandoned here, I thought to give it to that bannerman.”

“Who is your father?” asked Ser Arthur, frowning.

She chewed at her lip for a moment. _I can only hope now that the rumors that say the Prince is different from his father are true._

“My father is Lord Rickard. I am Lyanna of House Stark, Ser.”

A strange gleam flickered in the eyes of Rhaegar Targaryen and a pit of dread pooled in Lyanna’s gut. A breeze passed through the godswood and she swore she heard the Old Gods whisper to her of ice and fire. Specks of visions flickered in the back of her mind, reminders of the dreams she had during the journey down from Winterfell.

Her green dreams before the tourney had been terrible. She had dreamed of death and blood and something she couldn’t properly name.

While she was not turned over to the King, she was neither protected from the eyes of the tourney. For on the final day, after Rhaegar rode to victory at the lists, he laid a crown of blue winter roses upon her lap, declaring her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Lyanna could not find it within herself to look at her brothers or her betrothed or even the scorned Princess Elia.

She could only stare at the crown, remembering the winter roses she had dreamed of the night before. Their presence had driven stag and wolf, dragon and gyrfalcon to blows. They had turned smiles to sorrow. And yet, there had also been a new bud that smelled of spring.

.

**.**

.

Lyanna woke with a start, sticky with sweat despite the icy chill that gripped her body. She had been home for barely a week and already she was haunted by dreams. Her heart raced and she closed her eyes, allowing once more for the vision she had to flicker. She had been flying in the midst of a terrible winter storm, ice and hail and sleet all about her, yet she wasn’t flying of her own power. There had been something powerful beneath her, warm and majestic with great sprawling wings.

She had wondered where she was flying, until she looked aside and saw her reflection in the ice of the Wall.

The girl she had seen, the girl she was, had been her but not. Her face and hair were all too similar, but there were slight differences. More beautiful, more enchanting, _less_ Northern. Yet it was the eyes that spoke the truth that whoever Lyanna had dreamed of was not her. Pools of deep indigo, almost black or grey, had stared back with the same haunted feeling she had.

 _This dream…this dream again…_ Lyanna sighed, rubbing her face. _What could it mean? What am I seeing?_

The first night she had been haunted by the particular green dream had followed Prince Rhaegar scorning his wife in favor of Lyanna. That girl, her but not her, flying atop something great, flying beside the Wall in the worst winter storm she could ever imagine. A taunting thought made her wonder if that great beast could be a dragon, but they were all dead. The Targaryens had wiped them out during the Dance, over a hundred years past.

 _Could she be riding a dragon?_ Lyanna wondered, feeling oddly sick. She slipped from her bed, searching out a large fur to slump over her shoulders. _But why would I see myself riding one? Unless…_

She shoved the thought away. It shouldn’t be possible for her to be dragged into the affairs of House Targaryen. Despite her wishes otherwise, her father had seen to it that Lyanna was betrothed to Robert of House Baratheon. How Ned could consider that drunken lecher to be as a brother to him, she still could not fathom. He may have a Targaryen grandmother, but she doubted their children would have her looks. And other than Prince Rhaegar, there was no Targaryen she could become involved with.

Lyanna shook her head as though that was enough to convince herself that she had not dreamed of…some fate related to Prince Rhaegar. Maybe the girl she dreamed of would appear in a couple of generations, when she was long dead and could no longer worry about dragons flying beyond the Wall. She felt comfortable, thinking of that girl as being a distant descendant, the flowering of a seed that would begin with her.

And then she thought of coming to the marriage bed with Robert Baratheon and felt revulsion.

“Oh Ned,” she muttered, running a hand through her dark hair. The slight curls she alone inherited from their late mother tangled with her thin fingers. “Why must you call that fool a brother, even if only to you? And why would you ever think he would be right for me?”

She sighed, worried that she already knew why. Ned had been away from Winterfell for years and had naturally latched onto the boy closest in age and status. Regardless of his actions, that boy happened to be Robert Baratheon. It was disturbing, having seen that Baratheon was a drunk who openly groped giggling serving maids. It burned Lyanna, knowing that was the man her father wished for her.

A hint of light passed through the open window. Lyanna peered outside and watched the sun poke out from beyond the horizon. She rubbed her face, clearing away the hints and traces of sleep that remained. There would be no returning to bed, assuming she could sleep without dreams renewed.

Sometimes she wondered what her life was supposed to be without her dreams. Would she still be Lyanna Stark, willful and proud? Would she have still ridden to defend the honor of her father’s bannerman?

Would she still have green dreams? And if she did, would they be kind or cruel, ruling her regardless…

.

**.**

.

Rhaegar Targaryen watched a raven fly north, the weight of the world wrapped into a roll of parchment. What he was doing, what he had written, was something he had to do. The prophecies were clear and his course was set. The prince who was promised, the savior, had a song—the song of ice and fire. He could hear Arthur despondent words about his foolish choices, yet there was no other path now. He was a prince of the realm, and he couldn’t doubt himself. Not here, and not now.

 _The dragon has three heads_ , he thought, watching a speck of a bird vanish. _Elia has provided me two children…but she is not the one to grant the third we need._

.

**.**

.

She kneeled before the heart tree, a slip of parchment crushed within a trembling hand. Lyanna Stark needed guidance, and there was not a soul she could turn to. Old Nan, fortunately, had found the message before the Maester could retrieve it from the ravenry. The older woman had passed it along to Lyanna, ignoring the red wax seal that troubled the Stark maid. Even now, she felt as though the words were burned into her memory like a plague.

_‘Forgive me, daughter of House Stark, for my impertinence. I have long wondered who was to be the_ ice _for_ the song of ice and fire _, and I now know it speaks of you. If it does not shame you, I would take you away and speak with you further, of the future and of the Long Night to come._

_‘The Son of Summerhall’_

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Just when Lyanna thought herself free of the Targaryens, the prince had decided to once more interfere. Worse was the implied threat of her being stolen away from her home. Did he truly believe the Long Night would come again, that the dead would walk as they once did? Even she, raised on stories of the Others and their thralls, did not think it possible.

_Yet I have dreamed of dragons…_

“Gods of the North, gods of my forefathers,” Lyanna whispered, staring into the scowling red eyes of the heart tree. “Hear my troubles and provide me with guidance. A prince of the blood of Old Valyria has taken an interest in me. I know what he desires of me, yet it would be a violation of your laws and those of men. He is married and with children, yet in my heart I know he desires one from me.”

She paused, chewing her lower lip, and then continued. “Your gift of the green sight has revealed to me the child of that union. I dreamed of terrible things, and despite my will to say not to all expectations of me, I cannot fathom what purpose that dream serves other than…” Lyanna froze, the words trapped in her throat. With painful force, she said, “Other than to push me towards this prince.

“I know my dreams all come true. I know one day a child of House Stark and House Targaryen will face death, but I do not know if I have the strength to risk everything I have for an uncertain future. So hear my plea, gods of my forefathers…please…”

Her voice trickled away like snowmelt in spring. Lyanna nearly rose, but stopped when the wind whispered through the blood red leaves above.

 _‘Trust your…dreams…’_ she heard in the wind, shuffling through the leaves. _‘They are our…gift to you…and our guidance…’_

She slumped forward until her forehead was pressed against the rough ground. Lyanna felt as though her heart was clenched by terror, and once more bile threatened to come up. She had hoped for her path forward to be cleared, not to be left with a terrible choice hanging above her head. Even if she did everything possible to ignore her dreams, they would still come true. There was no certainty that allowing them to guide her path would prevent greater suffering, though the gods had said they were meant for her.

 _They called my dreams_ their _guidance,_ she reflected, slowly rising. _That means…that means the gods_ want _me to I act upon them. The wishes of the gods come before the laws of men, and before my own…_

Lyanna clenched her hands as she realized what she had to do. There was no longer a choice but to continue forward. She would have to go against her father, against her family, against the world to see them come true.

Winter was coming.

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**.**

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282 AC

.

**.**

.

Lord Rickard looked up from accountings of seasonal loggings when the door of his solar opened. Lyanna entered, dressed in the grey and white of their house. Her expression was oddly pensive, reminiscent of Eddard and his wife, Lyarra, than the excitement or fury he was accustomed to from his only daughter.

“Father,” she began, “I wish to speak to you concerning my betrothal.”

He straightened, setting aside his work. Rickard gestured to the seat before his desk. “Please, daughter. Sit and speak.”

Lyanna did so, though her pensive look turned dark. It concerned him, seeing his daughter look exactly like her mother in the moments before she would tell Rickard off for some perceived mistake.

He still wished she was there with them, but his wife had died from childbirth.

“Father, is there any means by which you could turn back my betrothal to Baratheon?”

Lord Rickard kept calm in the face of his daughter’s asinine request. As far as he was concerned, Lyanna’s betrothal was a done deal. Once Brandon was married, he would see her married as well.

“Your betrothal is set in stone, Lya,” he said, trying to be gentle and stern with is words. “Ned thinks highly of the man, and while I was disappointed to learn he has a bastard, men are different before they come to the marriage bed.”

Lyanna scoffed. He knew she could be willful, but Rickard never thought she would dare to defy him so openly. Dealing with her tendency towards horse riding and sword fighting had been tiring enough, but this threatened his plans for improving the status of the North and House Stark across the Seven Kingdoms.

_I should have put an end to her tales of green dreams years ago. Magic died with the dragons._

“Lyanna,” he demanded. She flinched at his tone. “You have a duty to this family. Whatever Lord Baratheon’s faults are now, he will change.”

“A man like him will never change!” she shouted, suddenly rising to her feet. “I told Ned at Harrenhal that it didn’t matter if Baratheon thought he is in love with me. He has already wandered into at least one woman’s bed and left her with child. I will not hold any delusion towards him holding to _only_ the marriage bed.”

A long, tense moment passed before her shoulders slumped. “Father, forgive my outburst. I have had too much on my mind since the tourney.”

Rickard frowned. He had heard of Prince Rhaegar crowning Lyanna. He didn’t know what the prince had been thinking, but if he thought to look at Lyanna again, banners would rise in rebellion.

Robert Baratheon, he knew, would certainly never take another slight as he had at Harrenhal.

“Your betrothal is set in stone. Not even the old gods can change your fate.”

Lyanna sighed, shaking her head. Rickard opened his mouth to question his daughter. “May I go, then?” she asked. “Benjen says you want us read to travel south, for Bran’s marriage. He’s wanting to leave as well.”

“Yes,” he ended up saying. “You may go.” He watched Lyanna depart with furrowed brows. After a moment, he brought before him a blank roll of parchment, along with ink and quill.

 _‘Lord Baratheon,’_ he began to pen.

.

**.**

.

The ancient, faltering towers of Moat Cailin came into view after two weeks of travel. Lyanna drew upon her reins, the mare beneath her snorting as she came about to grin at Bran. He had challenged her to a race, from the base of the hill to the top, where the winner was the first to spot the towers of the fortress. Naturally, she was victorious, though she could tell from the scowl upon their father’s face as he approached just how displeased he was over their race.

“One of these days, I will beat you,” Bran declared, drawing her attention away from their frowning father.

“I doubt so,” she replied, swallowing any trace of painful remorse. Bran frowned, confused, and Lyanna regretted her words. She was set upon the path of blood, to sacrifice herself and her happiness for the future. She had not a clue what would become of her family, though something in her gut trembled at the thought.

And that night, under the shattered roofs of the Moat, Lyanna once more dreamed.

_She was in a red stone house, thick bricks surrounding her. The walls whispered and moaned, begging for release, yet Lyanna paid them no mind. That was how they were. As she walked down the corridor, she heard a whine. She assumed it was a dog, but as she entered a great chamber, she found that the whine came from a wolf with grey fur. Rope was bound around its neck as it tried to snatch a nearby sword with its frothing mouth._

_Lyanna opened her mouth to shout for the wolf to cut the cord with his teeth when her eyes fell upon an even more horrid sight._

_A coat of metal was set upon a ghoulish green flame. It snaked up, nipping at the metal, and from within came a flailing howl. Her mouth opened and her senses were consumed with sickly, melting flesh._

_And as her vision began to fade, a serpentine laugh hissed through the chamber, surrounding her madness incarnate._

Lyanna woke screaming and crying, shivering as she tried to remember where she was. After several seconds, she realized she was alone in a small chamber. As her breathing began to slow, she ran a hand across her face and through her hair. Her eyes closed as trickles of tears leaked forth, skimming along her cheeks in wet streaks.

She felt despair the moment she remembered her dream. She feared what it could mean, yet Lyanna also knew she couldn’t turn away from what she had already come to terms with. As her breathing slowed, she began to chuckle. Slowly it grew, hints of the same madness present in her vision coming forth. She wanted to hate herself, for what she was to do to her family, but she had no choice.

And so that night, Lyanna’s laughter turned to tears, and her heart calcified ever so slightly.

.

**.**

.

A letter awaited Lyanna at Riverrun. She felt fear and panic when it was delivered to her barely an hour after they arrived. Then again, seeing the red walls of the castle made her tremble as the dream from Moat Cailin tormented her. She barely remembered the introductions upon their arrival. Catelyn Tully—Bran’s future wife—was little more than a haze, a woman who would mean nothing to Lyanna. She barely remembered the others present in Riverrun before she was escorted to what was to be her quarters during their stay.

The sight of parchment, sealed with red wax and pressed, reminded her starkly of the path she was committed to. She didn’t know Rhaegar’s motivation, but she knew hers. Her gods demanded of her to commit to this course, revealing slowly the totality of what her choice was to inflict. She broke the seal and began to read.

**_‘_ ** _Daughter of House Stark, please answer my plea. In my past message, I wrote of the song of ice and fire. Know that this song is a child, a third child to be the third head of the dragon. My sweet Elia cannot bear a thir—’_

Lyanna crushed the parchment between her hands, her heart thundering like cavalry in her chest. She now knew exactly what Prince Rhaegar wanted of her. With a swallow, she glanced at the rest of the message.

She wondered if he would only care about her, or if he only cared for the product of her womb and his seed. A child to confirm prophesies he was convinced of, and to bring to pass the dreams she knew would become the truth. It was ironic, she felt, how she easily rejected the whore-mongering Robert, yet was bound to walk into the arms of a man willing to turn away from his own wife.

Lyanna laughed and cried, turning to the fire prepared for her. She tossed the message into the flames. She turned away to craft a message of her own, and to commit to the future only she saw.

.

**.**

.

Rhaegar Targaryen smiled upon the sight of a rowboat with two reaching shore. He had sent Ser Oswell out in disguise with a single goal: to deliver Lyanna Stark to him. While he had first considered sending Ser Arthur, both knights insisted the Sword of the Morning remain with his prince. Sending the weaker Kingsguard sat uneasily with Rhaegar, but this day, both he and Lyanna had agreed to meet here.

He did not know what to think when the first word from Lyanna Stark since the tourney was a complete acceptance of what he wanted from her. He had heard the tales of her being willful, and was even certain _she_ had ridden in the lists at Harrenhal and had come out victorious against three knights. It seemed uncharacteristic of her to make this choice, though he wouldn’t deny its benefit.

“My prince,” muttered Ser Arthur. “Are you certain about this course?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Prophecy is clear about the prince who was promised, Arthur. Lyanna is the one I need to ensure it comes to pass.” He paused, then added, “And remember that she has come of her own will.”

His knight said nothing else as the rowboat came ashore and Ser Oswell stepped out, ready to escort his charge.

.

**.**

.

Ser Oswell Whent aided Lyanna as she stepped out of the rowboat they had sued to cross the lake, God’s Eye. She gasped, tensing, the moment she stepped onto the Isle of Faces. There was something about the isle that reminded her of the godswood of Winterfell, and of her own dreams. She ignored the strange look the knight gave her. During the tourney, Howland Reed had told her of the isle, how green men who worshiped the old gods remained in secret. She had doubted him then, but now she thought he may have told her true.

Lyanna Stark almost expected one of them to come before her and Rhaegar, to guide them upon the path they were to follow.

Ser Oswell waited for Lyanna to start towards the pair, one in black and one in white, before he followed along. She thought it odd, but then a Kingsguard was likely accustomed to staring at the back of the one they were assigned to protect.

With seven steps, she reached the one fate, dreams, and the old gods had brought her to. Lyanna stopped before him and waited.

“Lady Lyanna,” said Rhaegar Targaryen after a moment.

“Prince Rhaegar.”

He smiled at her, though Lyanna wondered why he appeared sad. His lilac eyes looked almost remorseful. “Is what you wrote true? That you dreamed of my Visenya?”

She had to hold back from flinching. Not at the name he gave the girl she had dreamed of, but how possessive he sounded. “ _Your_ Visenya?” Lyanna questioned. “What future do you see for me then, my prince?”

Rhaegar flushed, glancing away. Ser Arthur, at the prince’s side, did not appear surprised by what played out before him.

“Because I will protect my own,” Lyanna continued. “And that most certainly includes my own child.”

“Even so,” Rhaegar stated, “You are here not because of your father, but because you decided to do so. _Dreams_ , I recall from your letter. Yet I…don’t understand, exactly.”

Lyanna looked up to the starry sky. “My entire life, I have been plagued by green dreams—visions of the future. I tried, once, to prevent one from coming to pass.” She closed her eyes as trickling tears threatened to spill forth. “I dreamed my mother would die, but what came to pass was worse than what I first dreamed of. I wanted to try and save her, to convince my father of what would come to pass, but he denied me. Every effort I made to prevent fate failed…and so I have followed them, regardless of whether what I have seen and will do is…acceptable.

“It’s the will of the old gods, after all,” she whispered to herself.

Her eyes flared open and she met his gaze. “I am risking everything, to ensure what I have dreamed comes to pass, Rhaegar.”

“And that is?” asked Rhaegar, barely whispering.

“To ensure the child I have dreamed of comes into the world,” Lyanna stated. “You wrote about the Long Night, and I am certain our child will be the one to face that threat.”

“Then means that what we are doing is right,” Prince Rhaegar declared with utter conviction. “The realms will think otherwise, but in the end we will be proven correct.” He held out his hand, long fingers directed to her. “I know it is not the way of the First Men, but in Old Valyria, a man could take more than one wife.”

Lyanna gaped, her deep grey eyes pinned to his lilac. “You mean you…would want me to be…”

“My wife?” Rhaegar confirmed. “Yes. It may sound cruel, but it is the only way to ensure Visenya is legitimate, and so she may stand side by side with her siblings, proud of the dragon’s blood in her veins. The court will be furious enough over what we have planned.”

“So you brought me to the Isle of Faces to wed me before the old gods,” Lyanna whispered, breathless with awe. She never considered that the prince would dare _this_ course. “I can accept that.” _Even though I never foresaw it._

“I’m pleased we are in agreement.” Prince Rhaegar took her arm and guided her further onto the island, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell forming around them. She focused on him as they walked. “I have already made contact with the green men of this isle. One of them agreed to wed us before a heart tree.”

Lyanna nodded, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. She hadn’t properly considered what would happen once she was brought to Rhaegar. Beyond having a child with him—one mandated by her green dreams, one who would be born—she barely had given a thought to what would be between them. She especially never considered he would think to take her as his second wife.

And worse, she was unsettled by the fact she was immediately repulsed by the idea. _Mayhaps this is what the old gods want, what’s needed._

They continued on, deeper into the Isle of Faces. They passed several misshapen weirwood trees. Only the largest trees bore faces, carved into them before the First Men. None cried red sap, and all were furious.

When they reached the center of the isle, Lyanna was surprised by whom they found waiting before the greatest of the heart trees, as wide as twelve men and taller than a tower. He was short, like all crannogman, turning to face them.

“How…Howland?” Lyanna stuttered. He looked as he had moons past. “What are you…?”

Howland smiled, though his eyes were stiff. Any pleasure of seeing him was squashed by fear of his words, and Lyanna already felt that dread.

“I dreamed of this, when I was here before the tourney.” Howland sighed, turning to Prince Rhaegar. “Forgive me, Prince Rhaegar. I should introduce myself. I am Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, sworn to House Stark.”

“So you are the one for whom Lady Lyanna rode the lists,” replied Rhaegar. “Is this something you only wish to speak with her about, or are your words appropriate for my ears as well?”

Howland was troubled by Prince Rhaegar’s statement, or so it appeared to Lyanna. She glanced between the two men until Howland finally sighed and said, “It matters little. Lyanna is set upon her course, regardless of what I say.”

He turned back to Lyanna, eyes flashing with startling seriousness. “Yet still…I wish to know, why are you doing this, Lyanna? What good does coming here with Prince Rhaegar do for you, and for House Stark?”

“Is this what you dreamed of?” asked Lyanna in return. “You told me you had these dreams as well, yet I did not believe you until now.”

Howland paused, lips pursed.

“I dreamed of death and the Long Night, Howland. And I dreamed of the one who will end it.”

His face slowly shifted through several emotions. Disbelief, then slow and steady towards fear. Howland’s mouth opened, seeking words, but slowly closed once more as he glanced at his feet. With a huffed sigh, he turned back up to meet her gaze, head tilted slightly due to their heights. Anger, dismay, helpless worry. She swore she saw all of them in his eyes before it settled into painful acceptance.

“If that is to be, then what would you have of me, _Princess_ Lyanna?”

The title he gave her burned. She was no princess. She was barely a lady by any standard. Even so, Lyanna knew that Rhaegar sought to marry her before bedding her, and that would make her a princess regardless.

“Ensure our child accomplishes what they are fated to do, and to be—the prince who was promised.” The words tasted of bile, coming from her mouth. She noticed the curling frown to Rhaegar’s lips, yet he said nothing. The knights only watched Howland as though he was a threat.

“And what of your brothers?”

It would’ve been easy, to tell Howland to inform her father of the choice she was making. Yet the words couldn’t form. Instead, as her heart cracked, she said, “Support Ned. Keep quiet of what has come to pass here, yet support him.”

.

**.**

.

She felt exhausted when they reached their destination: a tower tucked into the Prince’s Pass. The name was ironic, though Lyanna didn’t trust herself enough to speak those words aloud. In their journey south, they stopped for more than a single night once. Rhaegar had insisted upon two days at the ruin of Summerhall, despite their proximity to the seat of House Baratheon. If any beyond her own family were to take offense at her choice to go with Rhaegar, it would be them.

Or more particularly, Robert Baratheon.

She had asked Ser Arthur about that place. The Sword of the Morning had looked at her, eyes blue enough to approach purple fixed upon her. He had replied, “Summerhall is _everything_ to Rhaegar, more than even prophecy.” The knight looked away, flushed with embarrassment. “When he decided upon this path…I suspected he would wish to come here. We need to move on soon, though. There are those aware of his habits, such as this place.”

She had found the fixation upon the site of his birth to be curious. More so because it was there, under the night sky, that he finally got her with child. She had suspected so that following morning, having dreamed of that girl of ice and fire.

Yet what stuck with Lyanna beyond that morning, after her green dream, was the image of a bloodied, pale blade.

Unlike the others, she had not troubled with a cloak this day. Regardless of the season, Dorne had a warmth that had eluded her since birth. Not even the walls of Winterfell were as warm as the mountains around her.

The tower before them was simple. Its walls slightly narrowed with every block raised. The turret upon its top waved a small banner—the direwolf of House Stark and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen quartered.

 _Will that be her banner?_ Lyanna though, a hand resting over her stomach. In the moons to come, she would swell with child. It was exciting and frightening at once, though most of all—

She turned her head aside and vomited, flinching at the sickly burn as her late morning porridge came up, once more.

As Lyanna collected herself, she heard a soft sigh. She didn’t need to look to know the sound had come from. Ever since they had entered the mountains, a strange mood had come over Rhaegar. She only heard that sound when what a man would call weakness overcame her. Just because she had ridden in the lists didn’t mean she wasn’t a woman flowered.

_Or maybe he compares me to Elia Martell. Is the Princess of Dorne weaker than me? More hale?_

Whereas she was comfortable in the truth her dreams had led her to this place, she wondered about Rhaegar. She had tried speaking to him several times of the prophecies important to him, yet he pushed her away.

 _Maybe he really only cares for_ his _Visenya._

There was a group of servants waiting when they arrived. Ser Oswell was swift, aiding Lyanna as she dismounted. She was embarrassed, having to rely upon a knight for something she had done so often since she was a young girl.

“Princess,” muttered the Kingsguard, allowing her to lean against him. “How do you feel?”

“As though I’ve been dragged across the kingdoms,” she replied. Lyanna peered up at the tower. Now that she was so close, there was a familiarity. She couldn’t say what it was, but somehow she knew it.

_Could it have been from one of my dreams? No, not this place…though…_

She sighed, allowing the thought to flitter away. Lyanna had not had a new dream since Summerhall, and so trusted that her choices would allow them to come true. No matter what, they would come to pass.

Nearly two moons passed when a single rider approached their tower. Lyanna was thankful her morning sickness was fading. The night before, she had dreamed of home—simple memories, not visions of the future.

 _What must they think of me?_ wondered Lyanna, watching the rider get close enough to spot his white cloak. _Father is likely the most wroth with me, though he will eventually forgive me. Though Bran…Ned…Benjen…_

She sighed, watching from her chamber atop the tower as the rider dismounted. Like the Kingsguard who had accompanied them from the Isle of Faces, the newcomer bore a cloak of white. His armor was dusty from the road, but by some miracle, his cloak had resisted the land’s red tarnish.

“Sers Oswell, Dayne,” the man shouted, gruff and frustrated. “By the seven hells, what are you two doing here?”

Lyanna frowned, lips pursed, as Rhaegar too stepped out to greet the newcomer. She watched on, wary of what could lead a third Kingsguard to make his way to this tower.

“Ser Hightower,” she heard Rhaegar say. “If you are here, then does that mean my father is aware of where I have gone? Or was it the Spider who informed you of my location?”

Ser Hightower made a face, or so she thought from the tower. “The King has recalled you, my prince. It was Lady Ashara Dayne who informed me where you were, not the Spider _nor_ the King.” He paused. “War has broken out, Rhaegar. It appears your _disappearance_ with Lady Lyanna Stark went noticed—and with _out_ notice. Robert Baratheon has raised his banners in rebellion, as well as Lords Arryn and Stark.”

“I can understand Robert,” Rhaegar replied, “but why have Lord Arryn and Stark raised their banners?”

There was a sickly, pregnant pause below. Lyanna leaned closer, nearly poking her head out to be visible. “Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, are dead. Your father had them executed.”

 _Executed?_ thought Lyanna, stepping away from the window. _What…what…?_ She collapsed, falling onto her side as her breath quickened. _How could that happen? When? Where?_

And then she remembered one of her green dreams, of wolves and laughter. She laughed as tears sprung from her eyes. She rolled onto her front, face pressed against stone bricks, and allowed the growing, maddened cackle to emerge. It was only as she began to hurt all over that it faded away.

Lyanna had known what would happen to her father and her brother, and she had followed the path that led there anyways. She had been obsessed with the words of the old gods, of the visions they provided, that she never thought to even tell them.

 _But then,_ she remembered, _the last time I tried to defy my dreams, Mother died in childbirth and not due to bandits._

Lyanna rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She suddenly realized that she didn’t know who the new Lord Stark was. With Father and Bran dead, it had to be Ned. Yet, it could also be Ben.

Her heart paused, almost flickering weakly, as she realized she only knew who was dead. Lyanna got onto her feet, shoving away thoughts of her father and Bran, holding onto the hope that her remaining brothers still lived.

She made her way down the tower, heart pounding as she sought to focus on those who would be alive, and not those who were dead.

When she emerged from the tower, the men gathered at the base turned to face her. Sers Oswell and Arthur appeared oddly resigned, as though they knew what she wanted. Rhaegar shifted towards her, yet didn’t dare take a single step. His lilac eyes shimmered with a fear she held close to her heart. However it was the newcomer—Ser Hightower, they had called him—upon whom she fixed her gaze.

“Ser Hightower,” Lyanna began with a tired rasp, “who is the Stark of Winterfell? Who of my blood still lives?”

The aging knight scowled, torn over something related to her question. “Your brother, Eddard, is the one who has raised his banner in rebellion. His rightful liege, King Aerys, demanded he and Robert Baratheon present themselves after the treason of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark.”

“And what treason would that be?” demanded Lyanna, a metallic taste in her mouth. The fervor from her voice was comforting, her willfulness emerging not as a wolf, but a dragon.

Ser Hightower turned to Prince Rhaegar. “My prince, I do not think—”

“Tell _me_!” Lyanna demanded once more, shouting loud enough to echo through the pass. There was a slight growl to her tone, as though she were truly a wolf in human’s skin. “What treason did they commit?”

“He threatened the prince’s life!” Ser Hightower shouted back. The other knights flinched while Rhaegar looked away. “Your brother arrived at the Red Keep, demanding the prince come forward and face him. He went as far as to say ‘ _Come out to die_.’” The knight looked at Rhaegar again. “You were foolish, to do what you’ve done, my prince.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rhaegar quickly replied. “We should depart—”

“I will remain here,” Ser Hightower informed the prince. He glanced at Lyanna, scanning her form. “So will Arthur and Oswell. There are enough men further down the trail who came with me to ensure your protection, Prince Rhaegar.”

“My father—”

“Has declared three of the great lords to be traitors and will seek to destroy their entire line,” Ser Hightower interrupted. “He ordered me to retrieve you and to report what I discovered.” He glanced at Lyanna, first at her face then at her stomach. “If I were to report you have gotten the Stark girl pregnant, he would order me to return—”

“And kill me,” Lyanna finished. It sickened her, to think the king would order so, but she didn’t need to ask how her father and brother had died. Even so, she wanted confirmation. “He burned my father alive, and forced my brother to strangle himself while trying to reclaim his sword, didn’t he?”

Ser Hightower blanched. “How…how did…?”

Lyanna turned to return to the tower. The weight of tragedy inflicted upon her family was slowly descending upon her, and she didn’t wish for any of them to witness her weakness. She turned to Rhaegar, if briefly, and said, “Go, my prince. I only request you find a way to save Ned.”

“I will do what I can,” Rhaegar said, promising nothing. He turned to mount a horse brought for him. She walked away from the three knights in white as they watched the prince ride to war.

That night, she dreamed of him lying in a river, gasping her name as he died. She saw stag horns above him, stretched as shadows, and a bloodied war hammer.

.

**.**

.

There was a feeling in Lyanna’s bones, as she woke from another countless night of green dreams. She knew this day was to be her last. Ever since Rhaegar’s departure, she had dreamed of death. They were never the same, though she now suspected they were a hint that she couldn’t avoid this day.

She laughed softly, wondering if that almost forgotten dream of Dawn, blood upon its pale blade, would come to pass that very day.

Lyanna was cut away from her thoughts by a knock at the door. She was exhausted of her bed, of being pregnant, of Dorne’s heat. She thought being the mountains there would be some relief from the unbearable heat, but it seemed with the slow advent of spring that the chill she had hoped for was not to be.

“Princess?” inquired Wylla. A head poked past the door and Lyanna smiled at the maid. Of the three sent from Starfall, Wylla was Lyanna’s favorite, if only because she was neither subtly rude nor walked about as though on eggshells.

“Enter, Wylla,” Lyanna rasped. With every passing day, she grew hungrier and thirstier, yet her stomach rejected more and more. “I think today—”

Her words were cut off by a twinge of pain, one that was familiar and unknown. She turned to Wylla, who somehow seemed to have realized exactly what Lyanna had.

“She’s coming.”

Lyanna’s world slowly became engulfed by pain and fear, her cries and Wylla’s soft commands. She swore she saw Bran and Father, though she knew they were dead. Was she dead? Did her child perish with her? She couldn’t say, not as she screamed and cried and pushed.

_Pushed._

PUSHED.

And then with a shuddering breath and a strange, piercing cry, Lyanna returned to her own body.

“It’s a boy,” murmured Wylla.

Lyanna didn’t have the strength to outwardly react to Wylla’s words.

_A…a boy?_

She lay there, feeling what could be her very life continuing to pour from her. Even so, the sound of the crying and the periodic sight of her child gave her will to hold onto what strength she had. She could already feel it waning.

Lyanna looked at the two with her. She had not noticed another of the maids had come during her labor. Wylla stood near the door, nervous. Nyla stood by Lyanna’s bed. In her arms was a crying newborn babe—a babe that had yet to feel its mother’s touch.

“Can…I?” asked Lyanna, holding her arms towards Nyla. “My…my s—”

“Of course, my Princess!” Nyla said, handing over the squalling babe. Lyanna smiled slightly, still surprised by the woman’s loyalty. But the moment her child came to rest in her arms, her heart melted and her smile became true and fond.

Her babe’s eyes opened, and Lyanna knew she would give her life before she allowed any but her own blood to touch her. While the babe’s eyes were blue, there was a hint of violet that reminded her of a dream—the very dream that had led her to have this child.

 _Yet he isn’t the child I dreamed of,_ Lyanna lamented. _Did coming south, away from my gods…doom us?_

The door suddenly slammed open. Wylla flinched back while Nyla moved to put herself between Lyanna and the intruder. It was a man, short compared to the knights that had been around her, carrying a sword in his right hand.

Then she saw his face and gasped, “Ned?”

The maids froze, hearing Lyanna’s voice. They glanced between the two, slowly losing the sudden edge of nerves the fighting had brought on.

“Lya!” cried Ned, setting his sword to lean against the bed. Lyanna glanced at it and despaired, for she knew the sunburst upon the pommel. She had seen it daily for months, and she knew Ser Arthur was dead. It was Dawn, the sword forged from a fallen star, blade white as snow.

 _Another dream, come true._ _Father, Bran, Rhaegar…all dead._

_And soon…_

“Ned,” she whispered desperately. “Ned, you must promise me!”

“Promise you?” asked Ned, confused. His brows furrowed in a way that made her ache for the days she was a girl as he approached her. “What…what is…?”

“The Princess just gave birth,” Wylla said, hovering behind Ned. He glanced back at her before kneeling close to Lyanna.

“Lya…what happened? With you and…?”

Lyanna shook her head, shifting how she could as she felt blood and life alike creep away. “Protect him, Ned. Protect my son. You must promise me…”

Ned glanced at Lyanna’s babe. “His name?”

“His name is…is…” Lyanna gasped. She was quickly faltering. “Protect him…from Rah…Robert…

“Promise me…Ned.”

Ned began shouting, though she didn’t know what his words were. Her eyes opened and closed, slower and slower. She was afraid, yet relieved. The world would go on, yet her dreams were as dead as her.

The girl she had dreamed of had been just that—a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> While the first sequence was more or less written last year, this particular story was only written due to my involvement with the Darker Oneshots, Halloween 2020 Community Project. A special thanks to Potashiamu, who was kind enough to volunteer as a beta reader for the first draft of this story. Your comments and notes about the story in general were extraordinarily useful, so thank you for your time and your thoughtful observations.
> 
> In total, Fifty-Six writers, including myself, are involved with this joint project, spread across dozens of fandoms. From the First of this month up to the day before Halloween, we will be posting stories in the theme and mood of this month.  
> Those wonderful people are as follows: TheBadIdeaBears, Caldera Valhallis, Ferith12, Potashiamu, Kakashi97, Rhearenee, Tartarun, Alastair, Iceburg-sanCPX, Kittyface27, Silirt, Nazaki-sama, HisagiKirigakure, Phoenixreal, SesshomaruFreak, Yemi Hikari, Seth’s Kiss, SerenaJones585, The Token, Shnuggletea, Wrath of Vajra, Serene Calamity, DemonShippingQueen, Nissa Fox, Spunky0ne, Brenna76, DemonoftheFridge, Karkatsbabe, SensiblyTainted, CrimsonRaine97, Silverstar, DancesWithSeatbelts, Desna, FrejaBee, Drawingdownthemoon, Elleurs, KurohimeHaruko, TsukikoUchu, WhatIEternallyDesire, Yatsu Narurasuke, Babyvfan, Xache, Jadeile, NekoPantera, Sigan, Bewdochaos, RayeMoon, ArgentNoelle, AsgardianHobbit98, PhantomGypsy, HoshisamaValmor, Starfire93, Count Morningstar, Max333, and Sailor Silver Ladybug.  
> Please, go read their stories as they tickle your fancy, and always keep reading.
> 
> Best,  
> Kamil the Awesome


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